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So Surface died, and was gathered to his fathers.
The embargo of secrecy was lifted; and the very first
step toward righting the ancient wrong was to let
the full facts be known. Henry G. Surface, Jr.,
took this step, in person, by at once telephoning
all that was salient to the Post. Brower
Williams, the Post’s city editor, at the
other end of the wire, called the name of his God
in holy awe at the dimensions of the scoop thus dropped
down upon him as from heaven; and implored the Doc,
for old time’s sake, by all that he held most
sacred and most dear, to say not a word till the evening
papers were out, thus insuring the sensation for the
Post.

Mr. Williams’s professional appraisement of
the scoop proved not extravagant. The Post’s
five columns next morning threw the city into something
like an uproar. It is doubtful if you would not
have to go back to the ’60’s to find a
newspaper story which eclipsed this one in effect.
For a generation, the biography of Henry G. Surface
had had, in that city and State, a quality of undying
interest, and the sudden denouement, more thrilling
than any fiction, captured the imagination of the
dullest. Nothing else was mentioned at any breakfast-table
where a morning paper was taken that day; hardly anything
for many breakfasts to follow. In homes containing
boys who had actually studied Greek under the mysterious
Professor Nicolovius at Mimer’s School, discussion
grew almost hectic; while at Mrs. Paynter’s,
where everybody was virtually a leading actor in the
moving drama, the excitement closely approached delirium.

Henry G. Surface, Jr., was up betimes on the morning
after his father’s death—­in fact,
as will appear, he had not found time to go to bed
at all—­and the sensational effects of the
Post’s story were not lost upon him.
As early as seven o’clock, a knot of people had
gathered in front of the little house on Duke of Gloucester
Street, staring curiously at the shut blinds, and
telling each other, doubtless, how well they had known
the dead man. When young Surface came out of the
front door, an awed hush fell upon them; he was aware
of their nudges, and their curious but oddly respectful
stare. And this, at the very beginning, was typical
of the whole day; wherever he went, he found himself
an object of the frankest public curiosity. But
all of this interest, he early discovered, was neither
cool nor impersonal.

To begin with, there was the Post’s story
itself. As he hurried through it very early in
the morning, the young man was struck again and again
with the delicacy of the phrasing. And gradually
it came to him that the young men of the Post
had made very special efforts to avoid hurting the
feelings of their old associate and friend the Doc.
This little discovery had touched him unbelievably.
And it was only part with other kindness that came
to him to soften that first long day of his acknowledged
sonship. Probably the sympathy extended to him
from various sources was not really so abundant, but
to him, having looked for nothing, it was simply overwhelming.
All day, it seemed to him, his door-bell and telephone
rang, all day unexpected people of all sorts and conditions
stopped him on the street—­only to tell him,
in many ways and sometimes without saying a word about
it, that they were sorry.